Adjustment
by Spinesless
Summary: The first thing Merlin wants to say is "I'm not crying" but tears have forced their way down his face in droves. His blue eyes are red-rimmed and watery and every so often he'll whimper, quietly. He swallows around the knot in his throat and nods. He is not a coward.


"Stop crying and listen to me. If we stay here, they'll find us; we have to keep moving."

The first thing Merlin wants to say is _I'm not crying_ but tears have forced their way down his face in droves. His blue eyes are red-rimmed and watery and every so often he'll whimper, quietly. He swallows around the knot in his throat and nods. He is not a coward. Sniffing violently, he rubs the hand which is not throbbing across his cheeks.

Arthur's eyes soften ever so slightly. He knows the boy isn't used to violence, isn't used to encountering groups of robbers and bandits during patrols. He's a servant, not a knight; he is not used to battles or thinking quickly in the midst of chaos, he doesn't know how to dodge a sword or avoid be trampled by horses.

Or run without tripping over tree roots, apparently.

"I––" Merlin coughs. "I don't know if I can walk. My ankle…" He gestures to the limb spread out in front of him.

Arthur levels his gaze. "I'm going to have a look, see if it's broken, alright? I'll be careful."

Merlin nods again, chewing on the inside of his mouth.

With nimble fingers, Arthur undoes the clasps on Merlin's right boot. Gingerly, he slides the shoe off bit by bit until it is completely removed.

Merlin's ankle is swollen and bruised, mottled dark blue and purple. Arthur prods it a few times, eliciting several muffled cries of pain.

"Can you _not_?" his servant asks through clenched teeth and Arthur elects to ignore him, continuing his examination.

"Well," he says at last, sitting back on his haunches. "It's not broken. Looks like you sprained it pretty badly, though. Let me see your wrist."

"No." Merlin presses his arm closer to his body. "It's okay."

"Merlin. I'm not going to ask you again. Let me see."

Merlin hesitates again before unhanding his limb.

The skin on his palm is all cut up, bleeding and dirty. His last two fingers mirror his ankle, swollen and blue, as does his wrist. Arthur tries to hide his grimace as he feels for broken bones. His middle finger is clearly broken, bent in a way that it should not be, but his wrist feels intact, probably just sprained like his ankle.

"I suppose a broken finger won't kill you," he says, allowing Merlin his arm back.

"'Spose not." Merlin looks down at his arm with a detached sort of fascination. It throbs in time with his ankle.

Arthur watches him for a moment, just a moment. His manservant is pale, ruffled, scared, and dirty, but for the most part, alright. He'll survive, that's what's important.

"Come on," he says. "The rendezvous point is less than half a league upstream. Easy. I'll help you."

It takes more than just a little bit of maneuvering and costs Merlin several declarations of pain to get him upright. Arthur slinks one of his arms across his shoulder and the two hobble beside the river at an excruciatingly slow pace. Merlin has broken out in a sweat and the fact that Arthur keeps glancing behind them like they'll be ambushed at any moment isn't really helping. Merlin thinks about saying as much.

"Not much farther now," Arthur says after a time. "You don't look well. Are you going to be ill?"

"I don't know yet."

"Well, if the urge to be sick overcomes you, do try to vomit away from me."

Merlin lets out a sharp laugh. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

They reach camp much later than they should have, just as the sun is beginning to set, greeted with relieved cheers from the knights. Merlin is gently disentangled from Arthur in order to have his arm and ankle splinted and wrapped, but Arthur finds it ever so hard to let go. He knows that it's preposterous, that Merlin will only ever be about five metres away at any given time, but he finds it comforting to have him in sight at all times. The last time he escaped his range of view he got himself tripped up in the middle of a skirmish.

_Idiot_, he thinks fondly.

After his injuries have been tended to and he's got some food in him, Arthur drops into the seat beside him.

"Alright then, Merlin?"

The black haired boy doodles in the dusty earth with a stick. "Yeah. I suppose so. I'm not really used to…" He gestures at the camp, at the knights spreading out bedrolls or sharpening swords or drinking heavily from wineskins. "…this."

"It does take some getting used to," Arthur agrees. "But you will. In time."

Merlin puts the stick down. "Yeah," he says, quietly. "I hope so."


End file.
